


A Cure for Memory

by theblindtorpedo



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/Zero
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Gen, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Pining, Reincarnation, philosophies on the nature of truth and reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:55:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22768132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: Waver must come to terms with the summoning of an Iskandar that does not remember him."Are all apostles? are all prophets? are all teachers? are all workers of miracles?Have all the gifts of healing? do all speak with tongues? do all interpret?But covet earnestly the best gifts: and yet shew I unto you a more excellent way."
Relationships: Iskandar | Rider/Waver Velvet
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	A Cure for Memory

The Rider training grounds are put to good use. Alexander puts Bucephalus through steady circles, sharp turns, as Astolfo flits like a bumblebee. Each clink and clash of swords is accompanied by twinkling laugher and playful growls as they re-engage. More arresting than the familiar rivalry of the two is Iskandar, positioned on the sidelines. The fighters are accustomed to the audience; he is a frequent voyeur and often one of the boys will step with exaggerated flamboyance and a wink to inform him it is for his entertainment.

Waver feigns nonchalance as he sits on the grass, knees stiff triangles and ankles crossed. If he closes his eyes for a moment he can pretend. Memory seeps back in by mere proximity to the Heroic Spirt, the way that broad chest rumbles and the heat pours of the Macedonian’s body tugs at the deep recesses of his soul. Old emotions hung like gallery portraits in the halls of his heart are dusted off and viewed in new light they pierce with fresh intensity. Iskandar’s weight beside him is heavy and nostalgic and overwhelming. He imagines a rough hand, gripping his shoulders and perhaps stroking his chin. Boy.

“Have you come to watch the battle, Zhuge Liang?” Broken from his reverie he stares up into those eyes that look on him with friendliness, but there is nothing beyond them. Absence of gratefulness, pride, love, all remain as out of reach as the ends of the Earth.

“The sunlight is better for my studies. And I told you not to call me by that name.”

“I do forget you are unconventional, and your body is not made of Ether. Hm, a servant within a human form is quite remarkable. Remind me again of your name!”

“My name . . . they call me Lord El Melloi II.”

“What do you call yourself?”

“W-what?”

“Lord is a title. I also possess a title, yet I do not require all to refer to me as King of Conquerors. Iskandar is sufficient within this Chaldea where we are equals out of Time. You are not a Lord of anything here and I am not a King, as we serve a Master. Of course, this is temporary before I reclaim by my own hands the lands I have conquered.”

This is different. Rider, his Rider, would never have renounced that which he took most pride in. Waver feels the realization shoot along his spine like ice cold water. “That is not like you to say. You will always be the King of Conquerors to me.”

“Intriguing. We have known each other mere weeks and yet you already presume to know me and divine that I am being irregular. Certainly, I disagree with you and only I know myself well enough to pass judgement. I renounce the title not my Kingship, but I appreciate the deference.”

Defer Waver does, dropping silent and turning down to his book. _The Life of Alexander the Great._ The words blur in his vision, inky black worms fleeing his examination, but It does not matter. He has read them countless times, can recite the phrases in his sleep. When Grey asks him in the mornings to tell her of the armies, of Okeanos, he will sigh and she will look away with sadness and guilt. Now his hands grip the cover tightly, a lifeline in this alien space he and this new Iskandar occupy.

“Is your book not to your liking? You are breathing rather hard and seem uninterested in its contents.”

“None of your business.”

Iskandar cranes his neck to parse the title only to be thwarted by a diverting hand and a steely glare.

“Let me see it.”

“No.”

“Don’t be incorrigible. If it were meant to be kept secret, you should not have brought it outside. Show it to me.”

“NO.”

Iskandar grabs the book.

“Ride-ISKANDAR!”

“I say, this is book about me! You are a strange man. I am right here. If you have any questions just ask.”

A deep guffaw rises from Iskandar’s chest and no longer can Waver contain the traitorous tears that slip from his eyes to splash their betrayal against Iskandar’s fingers. The King of Conquerors looks down quizzically at his damp digits and, oh god, is that pity? Waver cannot stand it.

“I am performing a tactician’s necessary research on the strengths and weaknesses of his allies! Perhaps I’d rather read than engage with an oaf who’s sense of self-importance is the only thing bigger than his bloated muscles! It’s useless anyway, you’re nothing like the Iskandar in this book.”

“You know, this manuscript has seen a few years. Some of these pages may fall out presently.“ Iskandar’s eyes light up in realization. “I understand! You’re a fan! And you are disappointed that I do not match up to your vision of me. Based on the description here what did you expect?”

Waver scrubs at his eyes and collects the remnants of his dignity. He is older now, should not, cannot afford to be moved by the rejection of others. Not even Iskandar. A part of him crawls back into its coffin where it will be starved, but safe. The fire of hope was too bright. He should have known it would only burn.

“It says that you were short. Dark-haired. That is obviously a lie. I met a woman once who dabbled in such Fakes.”

“This is a lesson learned for you. Descriptions are never representative of a reality. They only tell us what was important to the describer. Is this woman a liar for working within her own Truth, although it seemed Fake to you who expected something else?”

“Don’t obfuscate, descriptions are important. It is deceitful to lie in inaccuracies. Yes, even Truthful descriptions are incomplete, but how will others perceive a reality they do not experience without someone who has seen it describing it to them?”

“Don’t perceive it.”

“What?”

“Do not exert yourself in the effort of perceiving a reality you cannot hope to understand secondhand. Take my dream of Okeanos. I never claimed to know what lay at the end of the continent. I had heard descriptions, but I pursued that dream so that I might experience it in full with my own eyes.”

“You wanted to know if the legends were True.”

“Irrelevant. The legends were already True, because to the people writing them that was their Truth.”

“Ugh, this doesn’t make sense! How can you – it does not bother you at all that they got it all wrong? What you looked like?”

“They are not liars for describing a different version of me. I commend them for describing their Truth as accurately as possible. Both the current me and the me in that book can co-exist. As long as he does not jump out to take that which I have conquered from me, ha ha!”

“Two Iskandars co-existing…” Waver puts a pensive hand to his mouth and slides a glance at the red-haired youth cowing in victory over a pouting Astolfo.

“Do not think I have not noticed. I am not stupid. Like the man in your book, he is both me and not me. It is like branching tree.”

“That is the focus of Magecraft, to reach the Root. The branches are interesting diversions, but not the goal.”

“Only the Root? What a waste of time this Magecraft is. You should value the whole tree, it’s Root, but also its branches and leaves, all connected and variable. That is the diversity that makes Life worth living.”

Waver is reminded of a dream. Water on his heels and salt in the air and the tremor of the ground where a Heroic Spirit walks.

_Are you having fun?_

_Yes, Rider._

That was not this Iskandar. That was not Alexander.

His Rider still hangs between the boundaries of memory, dreams, reality, body composed of fragments of glass that can only be shaped into a warped image. Waver’s hands are bloodied from pushing the pieces together and each form is more unsatisfying and irregular than the last. He is forgetting what his Rider looked like. He is forgetting what his Rider spoke like. Is this the life Rider wanted for him? The earth was destroyed many times before the Creation of Man. So, the leaves of the tree must fall before a Spring beautiful in its myriad novelties. He loves Alexander for the boy’s tender optimism and willingness to learn. He could see the trappings of a good man in this adult Iskandar. He was strong and dedicated, but he was also loyal and cooperative, a partner to ride alongside in battle, not to be led by. If he looked to this Iskandar and wanted, yearned, there was no forward movement. He could not become a worthy subject if he was still that nineteen-year-old boy who gnashed at the chains of his ability, yet hid his own Heroism behind another’s bulk.

“Thank you for the conversation. It appears the boys have completed their physical practice, so it is time I bid you goodbye as I must see to their mental training.”

“Of course. Feel free to come by some other time. I am pleased with the company.”

“As am I, Iskandar. I will return.”

**Author's Note:**

> being waver is suffering. ;_; reviews and comments always appreciated. read my older waverider fics if you want something sweeter after this haaa. follow me on twitter [nickyfolcart](https://twitter.com/nickyfolcart) (main waverposting) or on tumblr [theblindtorpedo](www.theblindtorpedo.tumblr.com)


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